So I decided to write a story. This has been floating around in my head, and I wrote about a quarter of it in screenplay form but lost it, so I'm going to redo it in prose. Expect chapter 4 tomorrow, maybe.
Let's do this.
Untitled Story
It's Not Actually Untitled, the Title is "Untitled Story"
By Cthulhu
"It was the best of times, it was worst of times,
it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness,
it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity,
it was the season of Light, it was season of Darkness,
it was the spirit of hope, it was the winter of despair,
we had everything before us, we had nothing before us,
we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way..."
-Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Gerald Etskidnapped pondered this, sitting in his recliner. It didn't make much sense, but not much did in 1927. He thumbed through his newspaper, trying to find some context for it. There was none. The writer had just shoved the opening paragraph of A Tale of Two Cities directly into the middle of an article on the price of eggs. He took a sip of his coffee, and leaned back in his chair. The day was getting off to a very strange start, and he suspected that this was only the beginning.
However, as you may have surmised already, Gerald was not long for this story. While the day was certainly strange, he would have little part in the proceedings.
The phone ringed, cutting the still air like a knife, because what else would be cutting it? A hammer? You're an idiot.
He reached over and grabbed the phone, putting it to his ear.
"Y'ello!" He said, feeling cheery.
A flat female voice responded, "This is a collect call from--" A blast of static emitted from the phone. The vibrant wallpaper of Gerald's house faded, the lamp dimmed, and even the daylight outside grew pallid and clammy. Terrible drumbeats throbbed under savage voices, shrieking blasphemous litanies that chilled Gerald's blood. The gnarled words he heard were not, could not be of this world, but blasted his eardrums and froze his mind like the abyssal winds of the void. "Ph'nglui Mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn" the monstrous voices chanted over and over until he felt he must chant along with them until whatever beast they worshipped heard and came to take him.
"--Do you accept the charges of this call?"
Gerald hung up. If they wanted to sell him timeshares, they could call him toll-free.
Gerald smiled to himself. "You don't mess around, Gear-bear," he said, using the secret pet name he called himself, “No one makes you pay tolls. You are one smooth operator”. He looked around his living room. He had earned all of this, his books, his anachronistic television set, his Star Wars action figures… Becoming a doctor was the best decision he had ever made.
"Who are you talking to?" His wife Ophelia Fnoparticularimportancetothestory asked him as she walked in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel.
"Why don’t you get back in the kitchen, woman?” The 1920's were not kind to women.
Gerald watched her walk away, and fumed to himself. He was a mover and a shaker, how dare she disrespect him? The phone rang again. Picking it up, he didn't answer cheerily this time, but simply waited to see who was on the other line. He was tired of people wasting his important newspaper-reading, coffee-drinking, time-wasting time. It was the collect call lady again. "This is a collect call from—“
A disinterested male voice came up, and mumbled “Your mom or something, I don’t know, just pick up the damn phone.”
“--Do you accept the charges of this call?" It was his mommy! Gerald loved his mommy, and his mommy loved him.
He quickly accepted the charges. "Hi, mom!" He shouted with a childish innocence, as the vibrant wallpaper of his house faded, the lamp dimmed, and yadda yadda yadda we already went over this.
“Be ye angry, and sin not. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.”
-Ephesians 4:26
"Interesting, but I'm not sure how it's relevant to a missing person's case," Paul Rotagonist replied to the chief of police, jotting the scripture down in his notebook. The eleventh rule of being a Private Investigator is, “Always write down any clues, even if they don’t seem important”. The first ten rules detail how to internally monologue, and are beyond the scope of this text. He was standing in the rain, next to the police chief’s cruiser. Apparently a man by the name of Gerald Etskidnapped had disappeared from his home under mysterious circumstances. Foul play was suspected, and Paul wondered about that phrase. It always seemed like people were playing a game when someone got murdered, or someone kidnapped someone else, or someone stuck something in someone else without the second someone’s permission or someone someone someone someone someone.
“Well then, Mr. Big Fancy Private Eye, why don’t you just go in and do the whole investigation yourself, since you’re so smart!” The police chief had never been a fan of private investigators, and after his entire family died of a noir overdose, he couldn’t stand them.
“Brilliant idea, my good man!” Paul walked away, glad to be rid of him, and slipped past the police line. He had never been a fan of police, and after his entire family died of a bacon overdose, he couldn’t stand them. Besides, they were terrible at investigations, and tended to spoil the evidence. Opening the heavy wooden front door, his nose was assaulted by the smell of rotting fish, and water rushed past his feet. The entire house had been submerged in a foot of ice-cold water. Paul made no attempt to get the end of his trenchcoat out of the water. He had more important things to think about than dress. Besides, his fedora was more than sexy enough to make up for a wet coat.
He looked around the sopping wet room and sighed. The cops had already gotten their hands all over everything. Donut crumbs drifted in the water, there was bacon grease smeared on the walls, and a pornstache had been carelessly left on the recliner. “Shameful.” Paul muttered. “No subtlety at all.” He knelt and took an exploratory sip of the water. Strangely, it was seawater. “Very odd…” He mused, but began to suspect he knew what had happened. All the signs were there. Seawater, a fishy smell, the phone left off the hook. Yes, Paul had seen these signs before. Someone had answered the call of Cthulhu. He needed to make sure, though.
Paul took off his hat, revealing short black hair, and removed a metal flask from inside it. He removed the lid and, momentarily pondering why he kept his whiskey in his hat, took a swig. There was no point investigating the supernatural without alcohol. Walking into the kitchen, he confronted Gerald’s distraught wife. He peered at her with his piercing brown eyes, staring directly at her until she became uncomfortable and decided to speak.
“Are you some kind of private investigator?” She asked him, drying her eyes.
Paul responded, “Something like that. And by something, I mean exactly like that. I need you to tell me everything that happened before your husband was kidnapped.”
Ophelia began her story. “Well first, all of the matter in the universe was compressed into an extremely dense speck. This speck began to expand…” She trailed off, noticing that Paul was giving her a very severe look.
“Skip ahead to this morning, please.” He suggested.
“Alright, you should’ve clarified.” She began her story again. “I was in the kitchen, making breakfast, when I heard the phone ring. I couldn’t hear what the conversation was, but there was something wrong in the air. The vibrant wallpaper of my house faded, the lamp dimmed, and even the daylight outside grew pallid and clammy. He hung up and started talking to himself. I asked him about it but he told me to just go back to the kitchen. The phone rang again, and next thing I knew, there was this water everywhere and he was gone! Please get him back, Paul. He’s rude and stupid, but I don’t know what I would do without him!”
Paul tried to reassure her. “Don’t worry ma’am, I’ll find your husband. How did you know my name, though?”
“Lucky guess?”
It was good enough for him. Paul tipped his hat to her and left the house. He was sure this was Cthulhu’s doing now. The annoying repetitive noise about wallpaper and all that nonsense was a sure sign of otherworldly meddling. He got in his Honda Civic and drove home, ignoring the chief of police’s complaints about “Doing your research” and “Keeping the setting consistent instead of sticking anachronistic stuff in everywhere”. What did he know about writing a story?
Several minutes later, Paul stopped the car on the side of the street. Turning off the engine, he stepped out and walked toward a decrepit, foreboding house. His feet crunched over the dead yellow grass, and he stooped low under the gnarled trees that clawed the air. The building leered at him with broken windows, and the smell of the world’s darkest charnel houses wafted out. Trying the door, he found it to be locked. “Hurm…” he pondered for a moment, and then kicked it squarely. Its rusted hinges turned to choking brown dust, and the door fell inward.
Stepping over it, Paul peered in, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light. The wallpaper was peeling; and the mildewed carpet stank of, well, mildew.
Paul froze, his heart leaping into his chest. Across the room, facing away from him, crouched a thin figure. He took a step forward, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. As he silently approached, the creature’s ragged breathing grew louder. Its clothes clung loosely to its gaunt frame, and its wispy hair hung past its shoulders. It froze, and Paul stood behind it, numb with horror, as the wizened creature slowly turned to face him…
TO BE CONTINUED I GUESS, MAYBE
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.”
—Jane Austen, Pride and prejudice
The ghoulish creature loosed a roaring laugh, fell and terrible, as it made this statement. Paul was frozen in terror, and he thought his heart might burst.
“I’m sorry, I’m already married, and I don’t really have a lot of money!” He tried to reason with it. “I’m not sure what you want with me!” Regaining his faculties of movement, he scrambled away, reaching for his revolver. His hand found the wooden grip of his only true friend, and he drew the gun. “Say hi to Satanos for me, hellspawn!” The creature spoke again.
“Jeez, Paul, calm down. It’s just me.” It pulled off its mask, revealing his grinning wife. “I thought it’d be funny to scare you, so I got this costume! I got you, didn’t I? Admit it.”
“Yeah, yeah, you got me…” Paul holstered his gun, and surveyed the room. “Did you really have to destroy our house, though?” He poked the mouldering, worm-eaten couch. “I mean, seriously. This stuff cost a lot of money.”
Melinda Inorcharacter flipped her hand dismissively, removing the rest of her costume. “It’ll be fine; we’ll just put a towel or something over the chair. It’s not like a little mildew ever killed anyone.” Paul sighed. He had never been a fan of fungi, and after his entire family died of a mildew overdose, he couldn’t stand it.
“Anyway,” Paul said, “I’m gonna be going out of town for a few weeks, got an investigation to do. Call Smitty, and tell him to set up recruitment flyers. I’ll need a team for this one.” He retired to his room, crawled into bed, and slept fitfully.
Paul suddenly awoke, covered in sweat. The moon was out; and the air was bitterly cold, bringing mist and the smell and sound of the sea. He was no longer on his bed. Sitting up, he saw he was sitting on a soaking wet rock, vaguely rectangular in shape, jutting out of the ground, which appeared to be more rock. In retrospect, it wasn’t really a separate part of the area, not a “rock jutting out of the ground” per se, more just a protrusion of the ground. Paul is sure you understand what he’s trying to get across.
He got to his feet and oriented himself further. The ground was slick with water and green moss, and was even more uneven than he had thought before. The rocks making up the area were far too large to have been moved here, but seemed to have a curious sort of apathetic design to their arrangement. It was as if some race of giants, or maybe just one giant with too much time on his hands, carelessly tossed these massive, rectangular stones into a pile, as some sort of eternal monument to his boredom. The angles of this place were bizarre, and he began to get a headache trying to follow them. Paul looked behind him, but found he couldn’t go far. A short way in that direction, a massive, square stone loomed. A wide crack traced the edge of its forward face, creating a sort of panel in the center of the face. Disturbing carvings skittered across the rock, further betraying a queer (Strange, not gay) intelligence to the place. He walked forward, and reached a cliff after some hundred yards. Leaning over, he beheld a dizzying drop. The sea was barely visible a thousand feet below. Paul quickly turned before he lost his balance, and his breath caught in his throat and the ghastly sight before him.
The great stone had changed. The crack had widened. Paul’s terror grew as he stood, numb with terror, watching the center panel slowly slide down out of sight. The cloying smell of ancient rot wafted out, and he thought he heard movement inside. The sound grew louder, and he clearly heard some hideous bulk sloshing its way out, groping in the blackness for freedom. It grew very near, and he knew whatever it was would come into view at any moment.
With a disturbing fluidity of movement, a flabby green claw the size of a small house reached out of the tunnel and gripped the edge, pulling the rest of the beast forward. Paul could no longer bear to watch, and covered his eyes. He fell to his knees, choking and sobbing with hysterical fear, and he waited for death.
“Who is John Galt?”
-Ayn Rand
Paul awoke suddenly, and looked around. He was back in his bedroom. The horrors of last night were nothing more than a dream. He began to worry. Cthulhu wanted something with him. First Gerald’s disappearance pulled him into the case, now he was dreaming about it; what would be next, and why? And who was John Galt? The question burned in his mind, and he couldn’t recall where he had heard it. Paul went to his minifridge and got out his prized decanter of endless whiskey (Moderate transmutation; CL 9th; Craft Wondrous Item, control whiskey; Price 9000 gp; weight 2lb.). There was no point being drawn into the gulf of madness without a lot of alcohol.
“Today’s the day. Gotta be ready to find my partner.” Paul said to himself, and hoped Smitty had gotten good coverage with the recruitment flyers. He headed to the bathroom to do the various things people do to make themselves less unappealing. There was an indescribable smell in the air, and Paul sighed with resignation. Something horrible was about to happen, and it was starting to get tiresome.
He decided he wasn’t going to let Cthulhu ruin his day, so he got his toothbrush and continued his morning ritual as if nothing were wrong. As he brushed his teeth, he heard a thump, and saw the door of the clothes hamper behind him momentarily pop up, as if something inside it had hit the door.
“Nope, nope, nope. Not gonna look.” Paul wasn’t in the mood to play games. The hamper jumped again, and he heard an odd, tuneless piping from inside. “No. I’m not going to open the hamper. Just sit in there and do whatever it is you do.”
The piping increased in pitch and complexity. Paul turned around, spitting toothpaste and whiskey, “For the last time, n—“ The hamper exploded. A mass of black protoplasm expanded rapidly until it took up most of the room. Shimmering lights played just under its surface, and various strange organs formed and dissolved across its undulating bulk. “For the love of—Can I go five hours without being attacked? Is that too much to ask?”
The creature continued to make its piping sounds, and in the portion nearest him a toothy maw began to form from the black slime. Tendrils reached toward him, sprouting savage barbs. Paul wasn’t going down without a fight though, and he drew Lenore, his revolver. He fired three shots, watching them pass harmlessly through the fluid beast, and decided he wasn’t going down without a run.
Shooting out the bathroom window, he crawled through and out of his house. He fell the ten feet to his yard and hit the ground running, his trenchcoat torn and bloody from crawling through the broken glass. The creature bubbled out of the window and simply sat there, partway outside, watching him with a cluster of featureless black eyes. They stared at each other momentarily, seeing if the other would make a move, and Paul felt the best course of action would be to continue running. Hopping in his car, he wasted no time in leaving his wife and home to the beast.
Several hours later, he returned, parked his car, and slunk back into his house. “Hey honey, I just had to go over to Smitty’s for a few hours, did the shoggoth leave?”
She looked up at him from over a cup of steaming coffee. “No, he’s still here. He’s been waiting for you, something about your new case. He’s outside right now, killing the neighbor’s cats, but he said he wouldn’t be long.” She poured him a cup of coffee, and Paul took out his flask and added a liberal amount of whiskey to the coffee. There was no point having coffee with a shoggoth without alcohol.
Paul and Melinda heard the screen door at the back of their house shatter, and then a hissing as the carpet melted. The shoggoth oozed into the living room, tendrils flailing idly and bits of burnt fur clinging to its bulk. A large eye formed and looked at Paul. “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot before,” it began. “I’m not like most shoggoths, and sometimes I forget that. I see someone’s big ugly noggin and I just feel like I have to rip it off.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it” Paul said, “We all feel like that sometimes. Go ahead and make yourself at home. Is there anything you need?”
The shoggoth replied, “Yeah, if it’s not too much trouble. Do you have any Japanese schoolgirls?”
Paul said, “Sorry, grocery day is tomorrow and we’re fresh out”
“It’s cool; I’ll just pick some up from the anime convention downtown on my way home. Anyway, I was sent here by the elder things. The stars are almost right and it’s not long before R’lyeh rises again. My bosses think you have what it takes to stop it from happening, and sent me up to give you some information.”
Paul responded, “That’s very flattering, but I don’t see how I can avert the end of the world. What kind of information do you have for me?”
“Well, it’s a little more complicated than that,” the shoggoth said, “I can’t just tell you the information. My masters told me to let you ask three questions, and I’d answer them truthfully. It’s more interesting that way, they said”
Paul pondered. This was an important decision. If he asked the wrong questions, he might not get the information he needed, and the world would be doomed. Perhaps he had received a clue at some point in the past.
“Who is John Galt?” He asked, remembering the question that forced its way into his brain after his nightmare.
The shoggoth thought about it for a moment, and responded, “He’s the guy that becomes Two-Face in Batman”
“Hmm…” Paul mused on that for a moment. He wasn’t sure how it would help him, but he didn’t think that question had formed itself in his mind for no reason. He thought of his second question. “Why did Gerald Etskidnapped get kidnapped?”
“Because it’s his name. It’s like a rule of the universe or something. It just had to happen.”
Paul was beginning to worry. He only had one question left, and the last two had provided him no concrete information to get him started. He conjured up the most important question he could muster.
“Will I grow up to be a movie star?”
The shoggoth flatly replied, “No.” Without another word, it flowed forward, knocking down his front door and a large portion of the adjoining wall, and departed for parts unknown.
Melinda went to the front yard and waved it goodbye, while Paul wrote down in his notebook all it had told him, shedding a single manly tear for his dream of stardom. Finishing, he closed his notebook, took a swig of Irish coffee, and caressed Lenore. It was time to find his partner.
“Love hinders death. Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I understand because I love.”
-Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace
“Yeah, alright. When I need someone who can love the Great Old Ones back to sleep I’ll call you. Until then, get out of my sight.” Paul was exasperated. This was the fifth prospect he had interviewed, and they were all pathetic. Had Smitty put his posters in the wrong part of town? He doubted it. Smitty never failed. Smitty punched bears and ate gravel. It was just a bad crop of recruits, he supposed. The next recruit walked in. Paul tried his best to be optimistic, and began the interview. “So, Mr. I don’t really care what your name is unless you turn out good, what do you do?”
“I’m a programmer by trade”, the man responded.
Paul said, “A good knowledge of computers is useful in the 1920s. What languages do you know?
The man smiled proudly, “I’m fluent in .com, .net, and .org. I’m also learning jpeg.”
Paul sighed. “Thanks, but I don’t think you’re investigator material.” The man departed, crying, and Paul sent the next prospect in. He was thin, and shorter than Paul, wearing a gray trenchcoat, but lacking a fedora. He had short, wavy red hair, and clutched a copy of The Private Investigator’s Handbook. Paul liked the look of him, and decided he’d go ahead and ask his name.
The man sat down and said, “I’m Silas Upportingcharacter. I’m currently unemployed, but I’m training to be a private investigator. You’ll notice my trenchcoat and book; I’m working on the fedora.”
Paul smiled, “I did notice, very nice. What makes you want to work for me, and not any of the other private investigators working?”
Silas said, “Well, I hadn’t exactly heard of you before I read your poster, but it was very well-designed. I thought anyone with a poster like that must know his stuff.”
“Yeah, the poster’s great. Smitty made it.”
Silas’ eyes widened, “The Smitty?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
“Do I know him? Smitty is the most important man in my life!” Silas exclaimed. “I once saw Smitty steal an entire rollercoaster.”
Paul liked this man quite a lot. “I think I’ve found my partner” he told him. “It’s time to end this relatively unfunny part of the story. Do you have a gun?”
Silas drew his revolver and touched it lovingly. “I call her Guinevere.”
“Good,” Paul said, “We won’t have to get one. Pack your things; we leave tomorrow for Innsmouth, Massachusetts.”
“Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement's,
You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St Martin's”
-George Orwell, 1984
“What’s he talking about?” Silas asked the flight attendant as she walked past.
She gave a plastic smile and said cheerily, “The pilot hit his head when he was a young child, and now speaks in 1984 quotes. We’re sorry for any inconvenience.”
Silas forgave her, and looked over to Paul, sitting at the window seat. “This flight is really boring. Did you bring an mp3 player or anything?”
Paul looked confused. “What’s an mp3 player? It’s 1927.”
Silas narrowed his eyes and said, “We’re flying in a jet, Paul. You drive a Honda Civic. Time has no meaning here.” He sighed. “Also, why did you say ‘it’s 1927’? If you didn’t know what an mp3 player is, you would have no reason to think it was something from the future. You essentially proved that you did know what it was.”
Paul grinned, and gave Silas a congratulatory pat on the shoulder. “You passed the test. You’re gonna make a great investigator.” Silas thanked him, and looked around the plane for something to allay his boredom. This was a spectacularly boring plane. Nothing seemed to catch his eye, from the nondescript passengers, to the artificially friendly attendants, to the soporific droning of the plane’s engines. He decided to try to talk to Paul.
“Anyway,” he began, “what’s this investigation all about? Are we catching some deadbeat dad, maybe recovering someone’s inheritance? Are we solving a murder?!”
Paul flatly responded, “We’re saving the world.”
Silas was excited and intrigued. “From what, the Russians? The Germans? Is it someone in our own government? This is exciting and intriguing!”
Paul answered, “No. We’re saving the world from Cthulhu.”
Silas said, a blank look on his face, “Who’s Cthulhu?”
“Who’s Cthulhu!? I’m glad you asked.” Paul stood up and walked into the aisle. A piano began to play, and he turned his fedora down in a jazzy way, though the following song was not really that jazzy. Paul felt he had to work with what he had on hand.
The passengers sang together,
In R’lyeh, where hope is dead
When stars align here’s what we say
Paul cleared his throat and began.
Dead in his tower he waits for the hour
That's Cthulhu
When the stars seem to shine with luster malign
That's Cthulhu
Pipes will sing t’ke-ling-ling t’ke-ling-a-ling, t’ke-ling-a-ling
And you'll scream, “Malum nocta”
Minds he’ll flay tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay
And we’ll eat mozzarella
“Uh, what?” Silas asked, bemused.
“If it doesn’t make sense, just ignore it. I’m making this up as I go.” Explained Paul.
When he calls up his friends all our minds they will rend
That's Cthulhu
Cyaegha, and Nyogtha, and Tsothaggua
It’s the end
When he sends you his dreams and you hear the dread
Chanting signore
Scuzza me, but you see, there ain’t nowhere to flee
That's Cthulhu
The passengers again provided backup vocals
Dead in his tower he wa—
Suddenly, they heard the sound of glass breaking in the cockpit, followed by screaming.
“What was that?” Silas asked.
Paul stopped the song, and said “Something horrible…” A stewardess rushed to the door and opened it. There was a sudden whoosh as air was sucked out of the cabin, and they saw that the windshield had been shattered. Lenore and Guinevere were drawn, and the two investigators rushed to the cockpit. The copilot was gone, likely out the broken windshield; and the pilot was on the floor, being menaced by a winged and emaciated figure. As they burst in, it looked up at them, its matte black face featureless save for two horns, and its whiplike tail lashed at them.
Paul aimed and fired, shouting “When you get back to the dreamlands tell’em Paul Rotagonist sent you!” The bullet went wide, and hit the control panel. An alarm blared, and the plane began to list heavily to the left. The creature grabbed the pilot and flew for the broken windshield.
“Richard, no!” The stewardess grabbed the pilot and pulled, desperately trying to save him from the monster’s clutches.
As her grip failed, the pilot looked up at her and said one last thing. “You’re only a rebel from the waist downwaaaaaaa…” and was gone. The stewardess thought this was brilliantly witty, and flung herself out the cockpit after him. She died.
Suddenly, a passenger walked in, desiring to know what was going on. Paul explained, “The plane was attacked. Everyone is dead and everyone who isn’t dead is going to die in anywhere from one to ten minutes, depending on how sharply the plane descends.”
The man thanked Paul for his sincerity before screaming and running around in circles, a course of action taken by most of the rest of the passengers as well. Silas asked, “What do we do now?”
“I could finish my song,” Paul suggested.
“Eh, I don’t think I need to hear the rest.
“Arise now, arise Riders of Theoden!
Dire deeds awake, dark it is eastward.
Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded!
Forth Eorlingas!”
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
Silas lowered his arms disappointedly. His rousing speech had done nothing to quell the terror the passengers were feeling, and they continued to run wildly around the cabin.
“What do we do now, Paul?” He asked frantically.
Paul thought about it. Looking around, his trained investigator’s eyes caught and catalogued everything of use aboard the plane as it hurtled toward the earth. Finally, he spoke. “I have an idea.” He drew Lenore and fired her directly into the roof. The tumult ceased as the passengers clutched their ears in pain, for a gun is a lot louder when you’re shooting it in a plane. At least, I assume it is. I have never shot a gun inside a plane. I also don’t plan to, if the Department of Homeland Security is reading this. With their attention gained, Paul detailed his plan.
“Alright, people. The plane is falling, correct?” Amidst the passenger’s nods, he continued. “It’s angled that way, right?” He pointed down to the cockpit, the lowest point on the plane at its current angle. Again they agreed. “Now, Pavlov said that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, so the obvious solution is to gather the largest passengers and throw them out the front of the plane until it slows down enough that we can land!” The passengers were less than approving of his plan, and Silas endeavored to form his own.
He leaned over to Paul. “I have an idea,” he whispered. “Go along with it.” He looked to the passengers and announced, “First of all, we have to get the plane on a more level, well, plane. That’ll give us more time. Everyone, quickly, head to the back of the plane and stay there.” They followed his commands and gathered at the back of the plane. Slowly it leaned backward until it was relatively level, though still falling rapidly.
“What now?” Paul asked.
Silas tossed him a parachute, before putting one on himself. “Run!” He shouted. While the passengers were distracted at the back of the plane, they sprinted to the exit, threw the door open, and then threw themselves out of the plane, Paul shouting “So long, suckers!” as they went.
They fell approximately seven feet. Silas hit first, slamming into the grass and rolling. Paul broke the fall with his hat and embedded himself several inches into the dirt.
“
Huh,” Silas said. “I thought we were higher up. Oh well, I’m sure the other passengers won’t be too mad at us for jumping out like that. You know they would’ve done the same thing.” Seconds later, the horizon flashed a brilliant red as the plane exploded. The passengers certainly wouldn’t be angry, because they were dead.
Paul removed himself from his hat, and then removed his hat from the ground. “We all have to make sacrifices,” He said, brushing it off.
Silas scanned the area. The terrain was hilly and patches of forest dotted the land. It was getting late, and would be dark within the hour. “Do you have any idea where we are?” He asked Paul.
Paul took a swig of whiskey and returned his hat to its perch. “Yeah, let me just grab my high-detail map of the entire eastern United States.” He responded.
“There’s no need to be sarcas—“ Silas trailed off, noticing the enormous map Paul had taken from his pocket. Paul unrolled it across the ground and began to walk across it. Looking at it, Silas saw it indeed detailed the entire eastern portion of the country. Around four hours later, Paul located where they were.
“Here we go,” He said. “We’re in western Maryland. There’s a town about five miles to the east. We’ll stop there for the night and see if we can take a Greyhound to Massachusetts.” Silas didn’t have any complaints with the plan, and they set off toward the nearby town.
Some time after, they reached Doompain Village. Silas gave the sign a peculiar look. “Doompain, that’s an odd name.”
“It must be Dutch, a lot of places around here are. Probably means Flower or something. Let’s find an inn.” They walked through the quaint village in search of lodging. The houses did indeed have a Dutch feel to their construction, and the villagers they saw running about wore distinctly Dutch clothing. They seemed to be preparing for something, hauling large amounts of wood to the town square, where rested nine obelisks of black stone in a V pattern, pointing in the direction of the constellation Taurus.
“Something horrible?” Silas asked.
“Something horrible,” Paul responded. “Let’s not get involved.” They veered away from the town square and soon found a small inn. Entering, they made their way past drunkards and dwarf fighters to the bar, and inquired about a room.
“So anyway, what’s going on in the town square?” Silas asked the innkeeper.
Paul glared at him. “I told you not to get involved. Now we’re gonna get sacrificed or something.”
The innkeeper smiled. “It’s just a harvest festival. We mean no harm to anyone, except the sacrifice. We already have one though, so you need not worry.” He gave them a key to their room, stating that the village had no use for money.
“Dirty commies,” Paul mumbled as they went to their room. It was a small, cozy, two bed affair with a window overlooking the town square. Our heroes were tired from the day’s experiences and quickly went to sleep.
Several hours later, their rest was interrupted by a scream, and they went to the window to see what was going on. What they saw there was so terrible, it can’t be contained in this chapter, and must wait for the next.
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Topic: Cthulhu writes a (Humorous, at least attempting to be) story. Chapter 7 up. (Read 2782 times)